


All Things Bright and Beautiful

by chestertonwhoknows



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beethoven's love life, But also kind of post-apocalypse, Gen, M/M, Pre-Apocalypse, unexpected mentions of the Spanish Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 09:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19331989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chestertonwhoknows/pseuds/chestertonwhoknows
Summary: In which Crowley and Aziraphale are waiting for the Apocalypse. Again.Originally posted in the lower_tadfield LJ comm in 2008.





	All Things Bright and Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to hsavinien, vulgarweed and enaranie for betaing. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Concrit welcome!

“Florence.”

“Manchester.”

“Milton.”

“What, as in Keynes? Seriously?”

Aziraphale slapped his arm. “As in _John_ , you incorrigible villain.”

“Oh. Well, yes, I suppose we could use some justification for the ways of God just now.”

Aziraphale tipped his head back to look at the foreboding yellow skies—the only colour left in the landscape as far as the eye could see—and decided he did not particularly care to have that conversation if he could avoid it. “My collection.”

“My _car_ ,” said Crowley witheringly. “If we’re going to be _obvious_ about it.”

“Fine, have it your way. Christmas decorations.”

“Crème brûlée at the Ritz.”

“The Sinner’s Bible.”

Crowley snorted. “Figures that’d be your favourite. Armani.”

“Ooh, Victorian fashion.”

“Victorian hypocrisy.”

“Victorian piety,” corrected Aziraphale.

“Megalomania.”

“Strength of faith!”

“What does it matter?” asked Crowley, dropping the ball. “I have had it up to my neck with this whole farce of a situation. Why are we even still here? There’s nowhere to go, nobody for us to tempt _or_ save. How long are They planning to keep us waiting?”

His voice grew steadily louder and higher in pitch as he spoke, and it was the unnatural echo which followed that shut him up.

“Hang on,” said Aziraphale after a while, too brightly. “I’ve got it. This is a good one.”

“I’m listening,” said Crowley, as if there were anything else to do.

“Sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches? The thing you miss the most in all the world is sandwiches?”

“Of course not,” snapped Aziraphale. And, as if forcing out the word, he added, “Music.”

Neither of them spoke for some time after that.

 

*

 

“Fountain pens.”

“Roman bathhouses.”

Aziraphale hummed wistfully. “Intercourse.”

Crowley made a sound like choking on his own spit.

“There’s no need to be crude, dear. If you didn’t care for it, simply say as much.”

“No,” said Crowley, “it’s not that. I just never would have pictured… _I’ve_ never done it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“In all that time, not once?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, openly smirking now—and wasn’t it just typical that even in this, he’d found some way to make Aziraphale feel as though _he_ were the one who should be blushing?

“You’ve never fallen for one of them?”

“I didn’t say that. Once upon a time.”

“Well, come on, don’t be a scrooge; what was her name?”

“ _His_ name,” said Crowley mildly, “was Ludwig.”

There followed a pregnant pause during which you could _hear_ neurons firing in Aziraphale’s overactive imagination. A distinct smell of gunpowder permeated the air.

“No,” breathed Aziraphale, eyes wide. “Surely not—‘Immortal Beloved’?”

“Right, because there haven’t been a million men named Ludwig in the history of the world.”

“But—”

“St. James’s Park.”

“I could have sworn you lived in Vienna at some point in that millennium.”

“And of course men called Ludwig are so thin on the ground there.”

“In fact, wasn’t it the early nineteenth?”

“I wasn’t _awake_ for the early nineteenth, Aziraphale. You’re imagining things.”

“But didn't you have a project, though?" said Aziraphale, frowning. He snapped his fingers twice, in rapid succession."I could sw--that is to say, I'm quite sure that you did, something involving _some_ body's final symph—”

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley pleasantly. “Give over.”

Disappointed, Aziraphale broke off. He looked at Crowley with a measuring eye and purse his lips. “I suppose I may have let myself get a little carried away,” he admitted at length. “Do forgive me, dear boy; it seems I’m missing my books even more than I thought.”

“You’ve said that already. Pick something else.”

“Still, if this person was dear to you…”

Crowley raised an annoyed eyebrow. “'Was' being the operative word,” he said pointedly. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale, disconcerted. “I do hope he didn’t…in the…”

“Relax; he died a long time ago,” said Crowley. Looking out at the vast expanse of blackened earth surrounding them, he snorted, and then quickly swallowed the sound. The landscape did not seem to welcome laughter. He added, more subdued, “A good thing, too.”

Aziraphale reached for his shoulder. “I don’t mean to upset you.”

“It's not that,” said Crowley, because of course it wasn't. His hands clenched and unclenched over his trousers; he gave them a stern look and put them firmly on his knees. “It’s just--" He broke off, licked his lips, looked at Aziraphale's open face, with its worried eyes and its absurd, soft mouth, and asked, "Haven't _you_ ever wanted it?"

He was horrified to detect a slight pleading note to his own voice; it made his tongue curl like wilted lettuce in his mouth.

Aziraphale was frowning again. "Wanted what, dear boy?”

Crowley waved his hand impatiently. “You know. To be one of them. Human.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, perplexed. “I’ve—I’ve heard stranger things.”

“Have you?” asked Crowley, tiredly drumming his legs against the crumbled remains of a wall they were sitting on. It had taken them days to find it. “Name one.”

“Well,” offered Aziraphale after an uneasy moment, “ _I’ve_ always rather thought it might be nice to have children.”

Three, two, one…

“Fat chance of _that_ ,” said Crowley, right on cue, “even if you had been human.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Keep your knickers on, angel. Don’t think I don’t know how you spent the 1880s.”

“I'm sure I’ve no idea to what you’re referring,” mumbled Aziraphale, turning pink. “The gavotte.”

 

*

 

“Nail varnish.”

“Road rage.”

“Crossword puzzles.”

“Chain letters.”

“I _knew_ those were yours.”

“Actually, so are crossword puzzles.”

Aziraphale flinched.

“Were, I mean,” said Crowley quickly. “Sorry.”

“Buggre alle this for a larke,” muttered Aziraphale. “From the way we’re going on, one would think we’d known nothing but unicorns and rainbows on this all-forsaken rock. Let’s shake the rules up a bit, shall we? Isn’t there anything you were glad to see the back of?”

“Sure,” said Crowley. “Early Modern English.”

“Customers.”

“The fourteenth century.”

“Or the twenty-second, for that matter.”

“ _Best of Queen_ albums.”

“Burger Lord.”

“You were right,” said Crowley. “This is much more cathartic. ‘Googling yourself.’”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Internets.”

“Pedestrians.”

“Answer phones.”

“Monty Python.”

“The Spanish Inquisition.”

Crowley let out a long, tightly controlled breath.

“Caught you off-guard with that one?”

“Only the first time around,” said Crowley finally. “Thumbscrews.”

“Censorship,” said Aziraphale, thinking that humour was obviously wasted on the poor chap.

“Waterboarding.”

Aziraphale looked at him askance. "James Joyce."

“Foot roasting,” said Crowley, in a not-very-calm voice. 

“Mosquitoes.”

“Crucifixion.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, starting to regret his minor change of rules. “Jaywalkers.”

“Scaphism.”

“Woollen socks?”

“Concentration camps,” said Crowley. “Nuclear weaponry.”

“Yes, well,” tried Aziraphale, “how about a blanket score for genocide in general?”

“Biological warfare.”

“Olives,” said Aziraphale weakly.

Crowley stared at him.

“Oh, all right—back to the good memories. Garden gnomes.”

“Aziraphale...”

“Fireplaces. Long walks through the snow.”

“ _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale bit his cheek. “I’ve not lost my hearing over the past two minutes, if that’s your concern.”

“How long do you suppose it will be before radiation subsides?”

“I’ve no idea. I do think we can safely consider ourselves unaffected at this point.”

“Whoopee,” said Crowley. “Lucky us.”

“Well, I’m sorry; I don’t see how it matters. Absolutely everything has gone.”

“It might grow back.”

“Out of thin air? Not very likely.”

“Think about it—why else are They keeping us waiting? Why not just pour away the ocean and pack up the moon? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Has it occurred to you,” said Aziraphale slowly, “that they may _not_ have kept us waiting?”

Crowley blinked. All the colour drained from his face.

“Exactly. Now, if it’s all the same to you, dear, I’d like to get back to our old way of playing.”

“Yes. Quite.”

 

*

 

“Mobile phones.”

“Tartan.”

“Plants.”

“Eden.”

Crowley let out a strangled laugh. “Is it just me, or have we been playing this game on and off ever since?”

“If it’s any consolation, it looks as though we’re nearly done,” sighed Aziraphale.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“Which brings us to: a good Cabernet Sauvignon.”

Crowley clapped him on the back with an unsteady hand. “Look at it this way, Aziraphale,” he said. “Here at last is one occasion you won’t be ridiculously overdressed for.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I should think not. It’s the End of the World and I’m wearing _cotton_.”

“As I recall, last time the world was ending, you were wearing an erotic masseuse.”

“Cold comfort,” said Aziraphale bitterly. “Thank Heaven for Adam Young.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to claim him for your side. You don’t know where he is now.”

“Pish,” said Aziraphale. “That boy had a spark of goodness strong enough to power Wembley Stadium, and you know it. I’m never wrong about these things,” he added meaningfully.

Crowley chose not to dignify that with a reply.

“Although,” continued Aziraphale, more wistfully, “if you’d asked me about the goodness of humankind in those days, I’d have told you the same, I’m sure.”

“'The goodness of mankind,'" said Crowley, “'which I as little want to deserve as I deserve it.'"

“That’s very profound, dear,” said Aziraphale, “but I know I’ve heard it before. Wilde?”

Crowley smiled. “Something like that.”

“It’s not _be-bop_ , is it?” asked Aziraphale suspiciously.

“Well,” said Crowley, “it’s not Mozart.”

“I should have known. Frankly, my dear, popular music was vulgar even for your side.”

“That’s odd. Didn’t I hear you call it very profound only a moment ago?”

“Rock-n-roll,” said Aziraphale loudly, “is nothing more than a simplistic, shallow, mindlessly repetitive perversion of an art form which was arguably humanity’s one redeeming feature.”

“A bit harsh, isn’t it?”

“Of course _you’d_ think so. The whole mess was your fault.”

“What’s that?”

“Please. Your influence couldn’t have been more blatant if you’d stamped on the firm logo.”

“I can’t believe you’re still carrying on about that,” said Crowley, stung. “They couldn’t very well have called it _Highway to Hull_ , I don’t think. And anyway, I wasn’t even talking about that—what I meant is, seems a bit harsh, giving them only one redeeming feature.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well, that’s easily solved. Name another.”

“Faith,” tried Crowley. “Compassion. Stuff like that.”

“On an individual level, perhaps. I was thinking more along general lines.”

Crowley scoffed. “What, human apologetics?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Aziraphale earnestly. “After all the trouble He went through to make them and love them and give this world unto them, what do they do?”—here he snapped his fingers in Crowley’s face—“They turn round and destroy the whole thing.”

“So you throw away the basket over a few rotten apples,” said Crowley. “Your side to a tee.”

“This is hardly the work of a _few_ ,” said Aziraphale sharply. “And given the context, dear boy, you might want to think twice about using apple metaphors to make yourself look clever.”

Crowley moved as if to open his mouth, but clamped it firmly shut. His jaw worked.

For a while, they sat in silence, not looking at each other.

Then Crowley said, “Cathedrals.”

“I…never knew that about you,” said Aziraphale carefully, trying to make eye contact.

“As a redeeming feature.”

“ _Oh_. Of course. Er. I’ve always thought they were more glorifying of the architect, really.”

“Mathematics, then?” asked Crowley, turning to meet his gaze. “Science?”

Aziraphale smiled, crookedly. In the sickly yellow sunlight, his face was lined. If he'd been human, he would have looked his age. “My dear, look where it has led them.”

Crowley bumped Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own. “Cabernet Sauvignon, then?”

Smile blossoming into relieved sincerity, Aziraphale shook his head.

“Poetry,” said Crowley after a moment’s thought. “Surely you’ve no objection to poetry?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Aziraphale. “I worsh— _loved_ poetry very much. But one feels that music is the superior choice, if you want to use art as an argument.”

“Does one?”

“Absolutely,” exclaimed Aziraphale. “Proper music was undiluted divine inspiration. Poetry could only ever express it to the extent that human language and understanding would allow.”

“But if it came directly from Above, though,” said Crowley, “it hardly counts as _human_ achievement.”

“Imagine that,” said Aziraphale, a perfect picture of innocence.

“Enjoy the smugness while it lasts,” said Crowley, leaning in and lowering his sunglasses for dramatic effect. Aziraphale had just enough time to register the strange intimacy of Crowley’s hot breath on his face _without_ the smell of alcohol before he moved in for the kill. “Children.”

“I should have known you’d resort to cheating,” said Aziraphale crossly.

“You really should have,” confirmed Crowley, sliding his sunglasses back into place.

 

*

 

“Ready? One, two—”

“Wait, on three or after three?”

“After. One, two, three…”

“Oh, come _on_.”

“My dear, I had no idea you’d be so dreadful at it.”

“I’m _not_ ,” said Crowley in a voice that would brook no argument. “You must be cheating.”

“Angels don’t cheat,” huffed Aziraphale. “You’re just going about it the wrong way.”

Crowley glared. “Were you planning to enlighten me, then, or should I wait for Gabriel to slip me a vision?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” said Aziraphale. “Everybody expects you to choose rock.”

“It’s a game of chance.”

“Everybody. Expects you. To choose rock.”

“But _why_?”

“Why drink milk designed to make an animal with four stomachs gain three pounds a day?” asked Aziraphale. “As if they ever needed a reason to do anything.”

“Huh,” said Crowley. “What if both parties expect the other to choose rock?”

“That, my dear,” confided Aziraphale, “is what happened between Cain and Abel.”

Crowley was not best pleased with this information.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, two rather more successful rounds later, toying with his cufflinks. “You don’t suppose _we’re_ meant to fight out the Last Battle, do you? You and me?”

“No,” said Aziraphale firmly, as though he hadn’t considered the notion. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a perfectly reas—”

“ _Stop_ it,” hissed Aziraphale. “It’s a preposterous idea and I won’t hear another word about it.”

Crowley let the matter drop. “So,” he said, once he'd managed to beat his heart rate into submission, “how do _you_ expect it will happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale after a deep breath. “‘No more water but fire this time’?”

“For all we know, it could be that forty-days-and-forty-nights business yet again.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. At least that way, we know the end is in sight.”

“Hey,” said Crowley suddenly. “Are you—”

“Of course not,” sniffed Aziraphale. “I’ve got something in my eye, that's all.”

“Right. Do you, er, want my handkerchief?”

“Please.”

Crowley handed it to him, politely looking the other way.

Aziraphale blew his nose and bunched the handkerchief in his hand. “Incredible, isn’t it,” he said, choking up again, “how these things managed to stick around for all that time?”

“Everything comes to an end,” said Crowley, not unkindly. “You knew that going in.”

“I did,” said Aziraphale at last, dabbing at his cheeks. “And I’d do it again.”

“I’ve always known you were a glutton for punishment,” said Crowley. “But it wouldn’t have been half as much fun without you. Can you imagine if the job had gone to Gabriel instead?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “We’ve had a good run, haven’t we, old boy?”

“I don’t regret it,” said Crowley, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes from behind his sunglasses.

“We’ve certainly had longer than anybody else.”

“Put up with a lot more, too.”

“It was worth it,” said Aziraphale, putting the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, “it was.”

 

*

 

“Plasma television.”

“Illustrated manuscripts.”

“Bonsai trees.”

“Frankincense.”

“Action films,” said Crowley absently, holding up a hand. “Is it raining?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible anymore.”

They both turned their faces up to the sky, Aziraphale blinking against the rain.

“If there is anything this great sodding world has never ceased to do,” said Crowley as clouds came crashing together and the heavens began to pour down on them, “it’s amaze us.”

Aziraphale looked at him, watched as the water soaked those fancy clothes and flattened that ridiculous hair, and he felt the weight of nearly seven thousand years wash away like so much grief. “I’m glad I’m with you, Crowley,” he murmured, “here at the end of all things.”

Crowley lowered his head and smirked, a rain drop hanging from the tip of his nose. “A _Lord of the Rings_ reference, Aziraphale? Something you want to tell me?”

“No, dear,” said Aziraphale, placing his hand over Crowley’s. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley's quote about the goodness of mankind may or may not be from Beethoven's letters to Immortal Beloved. He wouldn't tell you if it was.


End file.
